


Lead Me Not Into Temptation

by SStar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Beard Kink, Beard Porn, Beards (Facial Hair), First Time, M/M, Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something a little bit different about Mycroft and Sherlock appears to be the last one to find out ... his brother has grown a beard and Sherlock has a rather unexpected reaction to it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alocin42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocin42/gifts), [thediogenes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediogenes/gifts), [scriggly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriggly/gifts).



> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing but my filthy mind.  
> Unbeta'd - all mistakes are my very own (particularly since I'm out of the habit of using past tenses so please accept my unreserved apologies for any errors or strange phrasing!)
> 
> This (hopefully) should be a bit of fun, teasing and smut and is very much inspired by the lovely and sexy beard-sporting Mark Gatiss. I'll add more tags as they become relevant.
> 
> Gifted to the wonderful purveyors of Gatiss pics and gifs on tumblr - **enigmaticpenguinofdeath** and **the-diogenes** where I turn for refuge and inspiration along with **scriggly** who I've been harassing recently.

“ _There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable._ ” **Mark Twain**

 

John had returned. And given the force with which he had slammed the front door shut and the cadence with which he ascended the stairs, it was clear that his ex-flatmate was annoyed. With a small, anticipatory smile, Sherlock lowered the lid of his laptop and turned to face the living room door.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow when he finally saw John. He was dressed as he was usually inclined to when not required at the practice but was instead prepared to pound the streets of London in search of danger and criminals at Sherlock’s side. There was a light flush from taking the stairs at a run but no signs of the underlying annoyance Sherlock expected. Instead, John looked confused.

“ _Your_ brother is bloody insane,” John exclaimed in lieu of a greeting.

“I’m afraid only you and I agree on that. Mummy never believed me and Mycroft is more than capable of deluding everyone into ignoring his psychopathic tendencies.”

John, who had been about to sit down, stopped. He gawped for a long moment, caught in a half-standing, half-crouched position before suddenly collapsing into his armchair. "Seriously?"

“Need I remind you that it was my brother who came up with the idea to store dead bodies until he had enough to fill a jumbo jet that he’d blow up to fool some idiotic group of terrorists? Is that the kind of plan you could have conceived?”

“God, no!” John acknowledged before his expression turned sly. “Although I could point out that it didn’t occur to you either, Sherlock.”

" _I_ wasn't in full possession of the relevant facts," Sherlock replied with a sniff. He refused, as much as possible, to recognise his brother's intellectual prowess even if he did choose to waste it on the boring mechanics of politics, governments and endless paperwork. "So what did Mycroft want this time?"

At this, John's body language shifted, drawing Sherlock's attention. "Nothing different to the usual. Kidnapping people off the street is rather inconvenient but he did, at least, allow the car to drop me off here so I guess-"

"Good lord. One _little_ slip and he's all-"

"Sherlock!" John spoke over him. "I think your brother's concern is warranted in this case. You did drug him unconscious and took his-"

"Is he still going on about that?" Sherlock interrupted, face set in a scowl.

"No, but Sherlock, it was an awful thing to do."

" _Please_."

"It's like you don't even remember the consequences from Christmas," John muttered in an undertone and Sherlock hid his wince. He will never forget. But he doesn't like to think about it. _The plane. The exile. Disappointing M..._

"Although there was something strange," John added as an afterthought. "About Mycroft, I mean."

"Don't tell me my brother has suddenly become interesting."

"Different, perhaps, might be a better description,” John offered. “He seemed a little rough round the edges?"

"Perhaps you should visit an optician, John. Mycroft hasn't changed in years. He's the epitome of staid."

John merely rolled his eyes in his direction. "Well if you're not interested-"

"Not in the slightest."

"Then?"

Sherlock smiled. "We have a case."

 

* * *

 

 “So what do you think?”

Sherlock can’t hold back the irritated huff as he pulls his coat around him in an effort to protect himself from the steady rain falling upon Central London. “Really, Lestrade?”

“Come on, Sherlock.”

He threw a glare at the Detective Inspector. “I _deduce_ , Lestrade. I am _not_ a mind reader. Nor do I perform magic tricks to amuse you.”

The older man smirked back at him. “Well you do amuse me sometimes.”

“And other times?”

“You’re a walking, talking temptation where I’m constantly trying to stop my officers or myself from smacking you.”

“Funny.”

“I try,” Lestrade quipped back. “So back to this poor sod. What can you tell me?”

Sherlock pointed at the back seat of the car. “Well since you’ve already seen fit to remove the body-“

“The body was in a suitcase left in the boot of the car. With the infernal heat of this summer, until this thunderstorm obviously, not only had the body started to putrefy but it sounded … well, to be honest, a bit _sloshy_ when the suitcase was moved,” Lestrade protested. “Now tell me you still want the body at the scene.”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily before realising that was the exact wrong reaction given his complaints about the missing body. Even he would have been unable to stand the smell of a severely decomposing body. Ignoring the grinning Lestrade, Sherlock turned to face away from the car, taking in the general area. He was only a minute or two from Pall Mall.

“Well you already know the body was transported here recently with the car.”

“Yes, although the hundreds of camera we have in the centre of London still didn’t manage to capture the vehicle.” Lestrade sounded put out.

He decided to offer the other man a small clue without sarcasm. “That would be because whomever is responsible for this crime replaced the car’s number plate.” A cursory glance at the car made this deduction obvious. There were clear signs that the current number plate had only recently been screwed on.

Lestrade frowned as he bent over to look more closely at the rear yellow plate. “Right, damn,” he cursed, pulling out his phone. “I’ll get someone on looking for the model and colour of car then. Is there any way to narrow down the timeframe for when it entered London?”

“Today.”

“Today?”

He glared at the Detective Inspector, who had the good grace to flush before pulling out his phone, hitting speed dial, and promptly start issuing instructions to some underling back at the office. Sherlock turned his back to the other man, turning to examine the surroundings for any clues.

For all his sharp comments, Sherlock did understand. The body had been found far too close to Whitehall, to the Palace, for comfort. People wanted answers. Promptly.

As Lestrade continued to talk into his phone, raising his voice to counter the dull pounding of the heavy rain, Sherlock decided to give his surroundings a second appraisal. It was times like this that he missed John – steady, reliable and a useful distraction. _Grass, more grass. Tree. Building. Cigarette – female smoker from the lipstick, prostitute given the shade. Building, another building. Boring buildings. People going about their dreary lives. Banker, student, having an affair with his boss. Dull. Dull. Boring. Du- wait._

Sherlock's head snapped back a few degrees. He thought he saw someone he knew. Blinking rapidly, trying to see through the persistent falling rain, puddling at his feet.

 _But it couldn't have been_ … _Mycroft?_

He took several strides towards the gap between buildings where he could see the bustle of commuters and tourists passing by, brusquely pushing past a young brunette constable that had the bad luck to be in his way. But he lost sight of his quarry amongst the dull palettes of black, greys and navy coats and dull-coloured umbrellas.

Sherlock huffed as he popped his collar and drew his coat around him. It couldn't have been his brother. The face had been all wrong. Very un-Mycroftian.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

Finally, Sherlock thought. "Nowhere. Don’t fuss so, Lestrade."

He strode back to where the Inspector stood, huddled under a plastic veranda that was attempting to keep the scene isolated from the harsh elements. Lestrade was looking at him with a considered expression and Sherlock wondered if his discomfort was visible on his face.

"What?" He snapped.

Lestrade had his hands held high, as if in surrender. "Nothing."

"Good."

"Sometimes I do wonder who taught you manners, Sherlock," Lestrade remarked, gesturing for Sherlock to huddle under the veranda. "It's certainly not your parents' doing since your brother has impeccable manners."

"Shut up, Lestrade."

"There are those delightful manners in action again."

"Manners don't get things done," Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade laughed at him. "Pretty sure your brother would disagree with you there."

Sherlock spun to glare at the amused Detective Inspector. "Why all the comparisons to my brother? I'm not good enough for you anymore?"

"Sherlock, I wouldn't change you for the world."

"Liar."

"Well I'd like it if you were nicer to me and my team. Manners."

Sherlock snorted, finally turning away from Lestrade. "Like my brother." He paused, considering. "Have you seen him recently?"

Lestrade looked a touch confused for a moment at the change in topic. "Huh. Who? Your brother?"

"Who else could I mean by _brother_ , Lestrade? Do engage that pea-sized brain if yours if you wouldn't mind," Sherlock rebuked the older man.

Lestrade scratched the back of his head before answering. "Now that you mention it, I did. A couple of days ago perhaps. Didn't quite recognise him though."

"Really," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "How so?"

"He's looking a little different."

"John said the same."

"So you know."

"No," Sherlock practically hissed, drawing a sharp look from Lestrade. "Why would I ask you otherwise?"

"Sherlock! What's got your kickers in a twist?"

“Nothing.” His voice practically screamed sulk, he knew, but didn’t care. Sherlock saw Lestrade roll his eyes as he ignored the other man.

He wondered whether he could have really seen Mycroft or whether it his mind playing tricks, strange though that may be. Sherlock pulled up the image in his mind at that moment of discovery but it was too vague. Too blurry. The memory and feel of rain too prominent. But the man he had seen had intrigued Sherlock. _Not so much the fine cut of overcoat and the hint of bespoke suit – which did speak of Mycroft. There was something about the man’s face._

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he looked into nothing. _Pale skin, perhaps a little flushed from the cold air but nicely so. Long neck. And dark stubble. Several days’ worth of growth in fact._

Sherlock blinked. _It couldn’t have been Mycroft. Surely._

 

* * *

  

“Do you mind if I change the channel?”

Sherlock shifted his gaze from the magazine he was reading to John, remote held ready in his hand. “Fine.”

He smirked as John merely rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s curt tone and started to scroll through the channels, watching each one for about half a minute as the other man tried to find something interesting to watch.

Sherlock kept one eye on the television as he scanned the magazine’s agony aunt section. _Drivel as usual. Surely the teenage-girl-posing-as-a-mid-twenty-something with a crush on her best friend must realise that she’s just a friend and she has no chance however much it must be ‘true love’_ , Sherlock thought scathingly, as some inane idiot bopped around with a puppet on screen. _Barely five seconds_ , Sherlock noted absently before the screen changed.

Now onscreen was some sort of decorating show with some female presenter with a manic smile. _Ah, her husband is having an affair and she just discovered it before the show today_. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he rolled up his magazine and dropped to the side. Perhaps he might have better luck with the papers now that the unfortunate business with the car near Pall Mall with the milkshake man – John’s compromise after Lestrade baulked at ‘slurry’ – was over and the press had taken their fill.

They were in-between cases but the boredom of such wasn’t yet enough to rouse Sherlock to find a case or distraction yet. Besides, if it came to the worst, he could always resort to one of the duller cases from his website he’d been putting off.

A flicker of motion on the TV screen caught his attention as turned his head, looking for where John had dumped the newspapers earlier that day. “Change that back,” he barked.

“Polite people ask nicely,” John chastised, even as he raised the remote. It seemed to take an inordinate time to change channels and Sherlock scowled. _It couldn’t have been._

Finally, the TV screen changed – BBC2 he realised. Ignoring John’s curious look, Sherlock stood up and took a step closer to the screen and looked. He ignored the sound coming from the set, some interview of politicians and other imbeciles. Instead he focussed on the background, the movement of people in front of Parliament Square.

“Does that,” Sherlock asked, waving at the remote in John’s hand but keeping his eyes still fixed to the screen, “rewind at all?”

“What on earth for?”

“Answer the question, John!”

He ignored the puff of air indicating John’s frustration at him. Really, this wasn’t the most difficult he could be. “No. I can’t. You don’t care about the mechanics _obviously_ , but short version? In order to rewind, you need to be watching the screen, or recording it, for longer than ten seconds, Sherlock.”

Another wave of his hand signalled he understood that John meant ‘no’, the reason insignificant. _Wait. There._ “There!” From the corner of his eye he noted how John jerked at his tone, and how the man pushed himself out of his chair to come stand by him.

“What now, Sherlock?”

But Sherlock couldn’t reply. His mind was solely focussed on the small, but distinct and clear image in front of him. _Mycroft._ One of the idiotic people in the foreground had shifted and Sherlock could clearly see his brother, standing and talking to someone. Not that _that_ particular event was interesting in and of itself.

No. It was the image of Mycroft himself. Not the coat, the suit or the affectation of his umbrella – although being out in the open air in London did lend a touch of credence to that accessory for once. Sherlock thought back to the crime scene just a couple of weeks ago, with the pelting rain and that moment where he thought he’d seen his brother, and now the crashing realisation that it must have been Mycroft.

Because the Mycroft on his television screen was definitely sporting a neatly trimmed beard. And Sherlock was damned because he suddenly found himself thinking his brother looked absolutely, terrifyingly _sexy_.

“Sherlock?”

He blinked. Yes, Mycroft was still there.

John’s attention turned to the screen. “Oh, is that Mycroft?”

The redundancy of his friend’s question pulled him from his stupor. “Obviously,” Sherlock snapped as he pulled his dressing gown around him in an attempt to disguise the fact that he was _hard_. Just from seeing a miniature image of his brother. _What is wrong with me?_

“I didn’t think he did the outdoors. Far too keen on warehouses and his dusty office in Whitehall,” John remarked, throwing Sherlock a curious glance.

Sherlock tried to pull some semblance of propriety around him. Because social conventions aside, he has no wish for John to discern his thoughts. “Well I didn’t think my brother did facial hair, but that,” he remarks, a little snidely with another wave of his hand, “appears to prove me wrong.” _Well, perhaps a little hissy fit might distract John_ , Sherlock hoped. _Because keeping my calm obviously isn’t working._

“I thought you knew?”

He chose to give John the simplistic answer. “No, I didn’t.”

John shrugged, moving back to collapse into his chair. Sherlock moved around until he no longer stood in John’s direct line of sight. “Well, I think it rather suits him. Don’t you?”

 _Gods, yes_. “I have no opinion on the matter, John.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock took another step towards to the door. “Completely.”

“Do you want to keep watching this?” John seemed to have finally noticed Sherlock had moved. “Sherlock? You alright? You look a little pale.”

Not one to overlook a gift, Sherlock affected a slightly hoarse tone. He knows he’s pale – the sudden realisation that he found Mycroft with a beard a turn-on and the rush of blood to his cock in response – would do that. “I think I might have a lie down,” he lied, looking John in the eye. He reminded himself to not overplay his deception, not wanting to trigger John’s doctor mode. “Just for a bit. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a nap.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Having a mid-afternoon nap?” John commented with raised eyebrows and a shocked tone. “Has the world gone mad?”

 _Couldn’t comment on the world, but there’s a chance I might have._ Sherlock huffed. “If you don’t mind,” he replied, ignoring John’s question. “I’d rather not be disturbed.”

John threw him a puzzled look and Sherlock made a small show of yawning, all the while hoping the folds of his gown hid anything discriminating from his best friend. “Whatever, Sherlock. Go have your nap.”

When John declined to reply and turned his attention back to the television, Sherlock hurried to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. With the solid barrier behind him, Sherlock sighed with relief, turning to a half-aroused groan as his mind brought up the image of Mycroft again. Dark hair, sideburns that lead to his beard, covering his entire lower face.

Mycroft has always been individualistic, liked to express himself with his clothes and other accoutrements. At a simple glance, one might say his brother’s style could be classed as antediluvian but Sherlock knew the term best applied to Mycroft was _dapper_. And his beard encapsulated that. Neatly trimmed, not too long – a considered length. It added to Mycroft’s features, enhanced them.

 _Good god, what on earth possessed my brother to do such a thing. Has he no compassion on the impact he has on mere mortals. Or me?_ Sherlock was quite sure he had gone mad. It had to be the only explanation for why he could be so aroused by a mere bit of facial hair.

Sherlock gave into the impulse that had dogged him the moment he had recognised Mycroft on the television and palmed his cock through the fabric of his trousers, the movement sending a shiver up his spine. He found himself grateful for the solid wood door at his back as it suddenly took his weight when his knees buckled and he slid to the floor. He let his thighs fall open, unfastened his trousers as his mind conjured up the image of Mycroft smirking – how the beard made it much more of a delightful temptation.

He tried to bite back the groan lest John heard him but a low whine still escaped him when his fingers curled around his cock. Sherlock took a deep breath as he felt pre-come ooze and slide in amongst his fingers. It was utterly obscene what the mere image of Mycroft had done to his body, his mind.

His cock twitched and Sherlock tightened his grip in response, his hand sliding up and down the length easily given how aroused and slick he had become. All too quickly his thrusts turned fast and rough, egged on by his imagination. His body growing hotter, almost feverish – Sherlock can tell his face was flushed and a quick glance at his crotch confirmed his cock was a dusky red, shiny and wet as he spread his pre-come with each stroke.

Sherlock sped up, fucking his hand with gusto as he closed his eyes to better concentrate on his mind’s vision of Mycroft’s pink tongue darting out to lick his lips. He has to press the palm of his other hand in his mouth, biting down hard to muffle the moans he’d love to release.

His body was like an exothermic reaction about to go off – just a little more. Sherlock’s mind readily supplied the final piece. Real words, spoken to him years ago, superimposed upon this new face of Mycroft’s. _How terribly indecent, little brother_ , Sherlock heard, as though his brother whispered it directly into his ear.

Sherlock’s hips bucked, once, twice. The way he jerked his cock felt almost brutal, his entire body tense as he came. For several seconds Sherlock wasn’t aware of anything else but the harsh breaths he has to take. His muscles ache in that way a good orgasm should. When he does finally open his eyes, Sherlock noted his come had splattered all over his shirt and the floor.

As he came down from his climax, Sherlock’s mind started to fill the void. And a sudden _horrifying_ thought occurred to him that made Sherlock snarl.

_What if Mycroft had grown that damned beard for someone else? Someone special. Does Mycroft have a lover?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is turning into 6k+ monster so I've decided to split it into two parts - and given the second half has flashbacks, splitting into two should make the second section easier to digest.

_Has my brother lost his mind? SH_

_Why would you think he’s done anything of the sort?_

_Well it is clearly evident, don’t you think? SH_

_I haven’t noticed anything different._

_Are you blind? SH_

_Really, Sherlock. You shouldn’t provoke your most secret asset._

_Andrea! Mycroft has grown a beard! SH_

_Yes. Don’t you think he looks rather beau?_

_…_

_Oh, Sherlock. That was John’s second favourite mug._

_…_

_Well that was uncalled for._

_I’ll find any other cameras, you realise. SH_

_It was for your own good, Sherlock. Withdrawal remember?_

_That was MONTHS ago! Why can’t Mycroft give me some space? SH_

_It wasn’t Mycroft who put the order in._

_I’m disappointed in you. SH_

_Colour me hurt, Sherlock. I don’t report into you._

_What is that supposed to mean? SH_

_Perhaps one of these days I might deign to show you some surveillance from when you were unconscious._

_Back to the point I was making … what is wrong with Mycroft? SH_

_That’s a poor attempt, Sherlock but I’ll let it pass. As I’ve already said, there is nothing wrong with your brother._

_Then has he found himself a new goldfish? SH_

_…_

_He has, hasn’t he? Who is it? SH_

_A small freshwater reddish-golden Eurasian carp, popular in ponds and aquaria. Commonly found as pets._

_What? SH_

_The definition of a goldfish._

_Yes, I gathered that. SH_

_Why ask about a goldfish then?_

_Are you being purposely obtuse? SH_

_Never, Sherlock._

_Sherlock. Stop harassing Andrea. She has very important work to do. What do you want? M_

_…_

_Sherlock? M_

_…_

_Sulking doesn’t become you, brother dear. M_

_Go away, Mycroft. If I wanted to text you I’d have contacted you. SH_

_Do I need to visit you at 221B? M_

_Mind your own business, Mycroft. Stay out of mine. SH_

_I shall see you soon, Sherlock. M_

 

* * *

 

“Oh there you are, Sherlock dear.”

He ignored Mrs Hudson as she swept around him, making her way to his fridge.

“How are you, dear?”

Sherlock adjusted the glass slide on its rest, centring it so he could better view it through his microscope. “Fine, Mrs Hudson.” He heard the sounds of a bag sat down at the other end of the table and his fridge door opening. There was a pause before the older woman tutted.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, sounding distressed. Not that Sherlock quite understood why. Surely she had become used to his particular fridge customs by now. “You’re an absolute terror.”

His attention was finally drawn away from his microscope at the _thump-thump_ sounds as several items from his fridge were thrown into the kitchen bin. He caught sight of the small bottle of milk as it arced into the bin – the muted sloshing indicated brought a smile to his face, which turned fond when he looked upon Mrs Hudson.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me looking out for you, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson continued, turning around and Sherlock made sure to quell the smile, before she rummaged in her shopping bag and brought out an identical – _fresh_ – milk bottle. Very quickly followed some fruit, a loaf of bread alongside some other items. “Goodness knows what would happen if you were left on your own.”

Watching as she restocked his fridge, Sherlock scowled. “Need I remind you, Mrs Hudson that I managed quite fine for over two years?”

The look Mrs Hudson graced him with after she closed the fridge door made him wince. “It was Mycroft’s idea,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, bending slightly as he diverted the focus back to his specimen slide.

“Now, Sherlock. It’s rude to blame someone else when they’re not around to defend themselves,” Mrs Hudson chastised as she pulled some tins and bottles from her shopping bag and began to restock Sherlock’s cupboards. “But talking about your brother-”

Sherlock jerked back, almost upsetting his delicate apparatus. “What about Mycroft?”

Mrs Hudson turned on her heel, looking irked. “How rude, Sherlock. If you’d only let me finish-“

“Mrs Hudson!”

“Oh, do calm down, Sherlock,” the older woman said. “I thought I’d mention your brother came by _again_ yesterday, while you were out. You’ve been out of the flat for his past three visits.”

He flushed and said nothing. His memory of getting off to the mere image of his brother still all too fresh in his memory and while he refused to admit it out loud, Sherlock had been avoiding Mycroft.

“Such bad luck to have missed you three times in a row,” Mrs Hudson continued, as she fussed with the kettle, tea and mug. She obviously thought he needed a drink. “I might have thought you were avoiding him if I didn’t know you and him better.”

“Mycroft is just being an overprotective, overbearing and irritating nuisance.”

“Be nice, Sherlock. He obviously cares about you.”

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft? Ha!”

“You two,” Mrs Hudson remarked in an amused tone. “I feel for your poor mother. Goodness knows the patience she had to have with you but she did succeed in raising two handsome men.” Mrs Hudson crossed her arms as she rocked slightly on her feet, looking on indulgently.

“ _Two?_ ”

“Jealous, Sherlock?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his landlady’s back as she added the boiled water to the tea. “Of Mycroft? Are you trying to be funny because if you are, Mrs Hudson. Don’t.”

Mrs Hudson merely laughed. “Don’t be so mean, Sherlock. Besides I think Mycroft’s looking rather dashing recently.”

“Perhaps you might want to look into acquiring a pair of spectacles, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock replied in a sharp tone.

“Oh hush you,” Mrs Hudson replied, a slight smile teasing her lips as she placed the mug of tea near Sherlock. He was slightly mollified at how she kept the mug within reaching distance but not too close to his equipment. “I’d be quite happy if Mycroft took me out for a twirl.”

It took Sherlock several seconds to reply to that comment. “I do hope you mean dancing, of the non-exotic type,” he finally said.

“I was tempted to ask, when he came over, if I could-“

“ _Mrs Hudson_!”

“No need to shout, dear. I’m not deaf. Besides, who doesn’t want to have a feel of that bea-”

Sherlock interrupted the older woman, having no desire to hear the end of her comment. “Are you _quite_ done?”

“Almost, dear.”

He narrowed his eyes at Mrs Hudson. “Yes?”

“Do call your brother, Sherlock. Whatever the reason, avoiding Mycroft isn’t going to do you nor him any good.”

Sherlock scowled. There was _no_ way that Mrs Hudson could know the reason that he was avoiding his brother but the rebuke still made him blush and he knew he radiated guilt.

No, Sherlock decided. Until he was sure he could command his body and mind to behave, Sherlock would avoid being in the same room as Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stood in quiet contemplation, pulling his coat around him in the brisk morning air, gazing at his surroundings that were only now lit with the yellow warmth of a rising sun that promised another hot day. In front of him lay the still waters of the Thames, cornered by Westminster Bridge and Parliament. Behind him stood the equally impressive Portland-stone County Hall building where he kept one of several rooms in and around London. It provided him easy access to Westminster, Millbank and Vauxhall Cross – when the need arose – and usually related to Mycroft.

Today, however, it was Lestrade who required his services. His officers milling around the crime scene – of sorts – while waiting for the Inspector to arrive.

It was still relatively quiet that morning, although Sherlock knew that would soon change with the morning rush into Westminster and London city. And the tourists. The recent relocation of the London Dungeons to County Hall would only add to the excesses who came to visit the London Eye.

Although not today. The installation in question being the reason for his presence.

His attention is caught by the flare of the rising sun glinting off the river and Westminster Palace. _Mycroft._ London belongs to Sherlock but in a small part of this city of theirs, Mycroft is the owner. From Kensington to Embankment, Vauxhall to Lambeth. And he, Sherlock, is stood at the permeable boundary between his and his brother’s.

Sherlock winced. A quick darted glance at the police officers standing around the entrance to the entry gate confirmed they were otherwise occupied. He reminded himself he would do well to not dwell on Mycroft.

The gentle rumble of traffic crossing the nearby Westminster Bridge was not loud enough to mask the sound of approaching footsteps – _two men, one lighter than the other likely due to difference in heights. One coat buttoned up, one loose given the slight whip as it curls around legs._ Lestrade and John, Sherlock surmised, had finally arrived.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, John.”

“What are you doing?”

With a final, pensive look across the water, Sherlock turned around to face the two men. “Lestrade,” he greeted in lieu of an answer. “You finally made it I see. The body?”

“Wool gathering there, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked with a small smile, although it was clear his attention was mostly focused on the nearby crime scene itself.

“Not at all,” he replied, with a quick look to John. “Shall we?” Sherlock asked as he made a quarter turn and strode away, confident the other two would be following. He ducked under the police tape, ignoring the irritated police officer as he did so, and walked up to the waiting capsule.

John huffed as he joined him, looking at the large white and glass structure that made up the capsule. “What happened?”

Lestrade took over the explanation. Sherlock made sure to keep a part of his attention on the Detective Inspector whilst he continued his examination of the capsule exterior.

“We got a call this morning. A runner was doing his route along Victoria Embankment and up onto Westminster Bridge,” Lestrade said while waving his hand in the appropriate directions. “Spotted something on the London Eye and as he got closer he realised it was a body.”

“He saw a body in a capsule? That’s impressive,” John commented.

“Not in,” Sherlock interrupted. “On.” John and Lestrade looked in the same direction as Sherlock, the body’s presence indicated by a sleeve cuff and the protruding shoes.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock let a small smile curl the corner of his mouth when John scratched his head in confusion and asked in a confused tone. “How’d he get _up_ there?”

Lestrade let out a short laugh as he led the way up the small set of stairs built from scaffolding that the officers had set up to allow access to the crime scene. “That’s what we have Sherlock for.”

“Translation,” Sherlock added, pushing past Lestrade once they were at the top of the scaffolding, level with the capsule top. “Our astute and diligent best and brightest from Scotland Yard are at a loss. Once again.”

“ _Sherlock_. Behave.” John replied in a warning tone. Sherlock _knew_ he and Lestrade were exchanging looks behind his back

He ignored the other men and crouched down next to the body, examining. A moment later, he felt John duck down next to him. “What do you think?”

John hummed under his breath for a moment, his eyes wandering where his fingers could not touch. “He was killed somewhere else and dumped here.”

Sherlock twisted his head in surprise. “Really?”

“Well yes. How else would someone kill another someone on top of the London Eye?”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied, a little disappointed. He’d hoped for a more ingenious deduction. “Yes. He was killed somewhere else, _obviously_ , but perhaps if you draw your attention to his shoes and lower hems of his trousers you can see evidence of grass.”

“We’re right next to the Jubilee Gardens,” Lestrade offered, as he remained standing above him.

“No. Different Park, although I’d hedge he was killed within the City. Jubilee Gardens was obviously cut yesterday if you paid any attention to your surroundings. The few pieces of grass on this man’s body, where it caught as he was dragged, are fairly long. Perhaps one of the Parks that’s due a mow I wager.”

“Anything on who the poor sod might be?” Lestrade asked next.

Sherlock looked. _Shop bought suit. Formal shoes but suitable for running. Scar hidden by cuff – knife. Calluses on his fingers, consistent with someone who handles …_ “Foreign spy.”

“Really?” John threw him a surprised look before running his eyes over the body again.

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes as he stood up, relieving the pressure on his thighs from squatting. He pulled at his coat until it fell around him as he preferred before pulling his scarf off and tucking it into a pocket – the sun starting to deliver on her promised heat. “The clues are all there, John. _Look._ He’s been injured previously, knives. He’s familiar with handling a gun and he’s not one of ours otherwise the place would be swarming with those idiots at Five or Six.”

“Wait, spy? And foreign?” Lestrade interjected. “You mean like the case at Pall Mall.”

Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of Westminster and beyond as an image of Mycroft flashed in his mind and he fought hard to keep the flush off his face.

John forehead creased, a precursor to a query. “So I’ll ask again. How did the body get up here?”

His eyes darted to a particular spot on the nearby Westminster Bridge before rising to a point much closer. Camera. Sherlock found the one closest to him and looked directly at the camera.

“Sherlock?”

He wondered if Mycroft was watching him right now. Particularly given the small matter of Sherlock ignoring and dodging him for nearly a month now.

“Sherlock?”

And to add to his frustration levels, he was no further in discovering what, in fact, was wrong with his brother. Mycroft could be very obstructively discreet when he wished to be, Sherlock knew, but Mycroft had never been able to hide anything from him for any length of time when they had lived in the same home. All Sherlock needed was access in order to solve Mycroft’s latest puzzling behaviour.

_Perhaps that’s the next step. What’s a little invasion of privacy between brothers?_

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

John grunted as he also finally stood up. “Back with us mere mortals again, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down his nose as his friend. “Were you saying anything of any import?” He clearly caught the muttered “Bastard” that John uttered. Sherlock chose to ignore the comment, looking instead at Lestrade but was surprised to find that he too was being scrutinised.

“What’s so interesting, Inspector?” Sherlock drawled.

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, exchanging a quick look with John. “Touchy.”

Sherlock scowled, his mind distracted as he worked on his more interesting – and personal – problem. His gaze flicked back over to the Palace of Westminster as he wondered how best to access Mycroft’s diary. “Your insipid presence is a constant draw on my patience.”

“Insipid?”

“Must I acquire a thesaurus for you, Lestrade?”

“Notice he said _acquire_ , not purchase,” John interjected with a grin.

“Oh for god’s sake-“

“And we’re back to touchy again.” Lestrade commented.

John smirked at him. “He’s been like this for weeks.”

“I have not!” Sherlock objected.

“Yes, you have,” John countered. “I’ve no idea what’s got up your goat but you’ve been like this for a while.”

“Distracted at crime scenes,” Lestrade expounded. “Short-tempered-“

“More so than usual, you mean,” John clarified.

“Oh yes, definitely. And you’re a little…“ Lestrade trailed off as he tried to search for the right word.

Sherlock flushed as both men’s attention was firmly on him. He huffed as he pulled his scarf from his pocket and tied it around his neck again ignoring the prickling sensation as his neck grew warm, from the sun’s rising heat along with his own body betraying him. “If you both are quite done? Perhaps you’d like to know-“

“Twitchy,” Lestrade exclaimed.

John laughed and Sherlock threw him a betrayed look which was immediately ignored.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted loud enough to draw the attention of the various police officers covering the scene. How he hated being laughed at. “If you could compose yourself?”

“Come on now, Sherlock,” the older man entreated. “We’re just making an observation. After all you did just spend goodness how long gazing over the water there.”

He scowled for a moment, taking in the amused-concerned looks of John and Lestrade before spinning on his heel and hurrying down the stairs back to the ground.

“Where are you going, Sherlock?” Lestrade called out. “We still need to find out how the body got here!”

With another spin – Sherlock mentally grinned as his coat flared around him – this time turning back to face Lestrade and John, Sherlock flung his arms out and up in two different directions as he replied. “Call Mycroft. I’m sure his cameras will be able to help.”

“And then what?”

“Perhaps when you’re finished being so amused with yourself, Lestrade, and wish to continue investigating this case, you may come to Baker Street where I shall see if I am able to tolerate your presence enough to assist.”

And with that Sherlock turned away, ignoring the muted exclamations from both John and Lestrade, and hurried through Jubilee Gardens to get to the main road and find a taxi.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the present-flashback style works (and isn't too confusing). This chapter is a bit of backstory really.

**Chapter 3**

 

Entering Mycroft’s home was reasonably simple. If you were Sherlock, that is. For one, he had a key, secondly he _knew_ Mycroft. So when the soft beeping of the burglar alarm system started up once he’d closed the front door, Sherlock nonchalantly turned to examine the panel. Of course his brother wasn’t so considerate as to give Sherlock his alarm passcode but then Mycroft knew he didn’t have to. Although Sherlock was a little insulted that Mycroft thought that he needed a full minute to figure out a simple alarm code.

 

* * *

 

_Forty seven seconds._

Sherlock had a plan.

He planned to start with a scan of the ground floor rooms because he knew there wouldn’t be many clues in the main rooms. Although Mycroft’s study could yield something if not for the simple fact that particular room contained security features he’d rather avoid tripping unless he was forced to.

_Thirty three seconds._

It was Mycroft’s bedroom where Sherlock expected to find the clues he needed. The explanation for his brother’s unusual behaviour of late.

_Twenty seven seconds._

And with Mycroft occupied with the logistics – of both security and political agendas – for the upcoming international ‘get-together’ in Cardiff, Sherlock didn’t expect his brother to return and interrupt him anytime soon.

_Thirteen seconds._

Sherlock punched in the code. _Zero-seven-zero-one._

Really, for all of Mycroft’s talk, he had a deeply hidden sentimental streak. Or more likely, his and Mycroft’s smouldering animosity was suffice to fool anyone considering cracking Mycroft’s burglar system using information about Sherlock himself.

_Five seconds._

The alarm beeped one final time to confirm it had been disabled.

Well as deactivated as Mycroft’s property would ever seem. Sherlock was sure Andrea – or another one of his brother’s minions – would check the cameras in the public areas momentarily. Although the protocol was and still should be, if Sherlock’s recollection was correct, to ignore him since he was on Mycroft’s _List_.

Sherlock tilted his head upwards, even as he began to slowly remove his gloves, turning a full circle as he examined the hallway until he finally noticed the small indentation between the seams where two wooden panels met. Fingers now free, he tucked his gloves into a pocket and threw his coat upon the bannister, threw a broad smirk and a wink at the hidden surveillance camera before striding off in the direction of the kitchen at the back of the property.

Fifteen minutes later and having rifled through most of the ground floor rooms Sherlock was still no closer to understanding why his brother had suddenly felt the urge to grow a beard. There was evidence Mycroft was using his home gym a little more frequently – which might imply he was trying to impress someone, but then the kitchen held evidence of an extra carton of ice-cream – _chocolate of course –_ and the volume of brandy in the glass carafe was lower than Sherlock had expected – _subtle signs of stress so perhaps the exercise is a way to release tension?_

That left Sherlock’s primary objective – Mycroft’s bedroom. Standing at the threshold, Sherlock looked around the room – one might say the beige and brown colours, the wenge wood, was altogether reflective of Mycroft’s staid, dull personality. But Sherlock knew different. He _knew_ Mycroft, better than anyone else.

The room was a façade. A fortress. And all fortresses held a secret.

 

* * *

 

“A man’s house is his castle.”

“How droll quoting Coke at me, Mycroft. Besides, it’s only a bedroom.”

“ _My_ bedroom, Sherlock.”

“Not anymore.”

“The mere fact that I shall be at university does not relinquish my claim on my bedroom.”

“My, my, my. What an apt name Mother gave you, you selfish sod.”

“Sherlock, mind your language. You’re eleven! And try to behave when I’m gone.”

“Whatever. Stay away, Mycroft. I don’t care. About you or your precious bedroom. It can rot while you’re away.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock started in the generously sized ensuite, bedecked in chrome, porcelain and sandstone. He threw a slightly envious look at the bathtub, a monstrosity really, big enough to fit two, perhaps three people – _or one Mycroft_ , Sherlock thought a little spitefully. A quick rummage through the cupboard revealed nothing of note. Even Mycroft’s collection of medicines and personal toiletries were pedestrian.

Next to the sink sat evidence of Mycroft’s new facial accoutrement – a shaving brush, a leather strop, and a shaving soap in its scuttle – a thrown scuttle, glazed deep red with concentric circles that helped to build the lather. It was so very Mycroft. Finally, the Bismarck straight razor that his brother had obviously used that morning, meticulously cleaned and dried. Stainless steel with a dark, elegantred wooden handle. Sherlock resisted the urge to pick up the blade, but he can almost hear the rasp as the blade slid over Mycroft’s skin, through lather and bristles and he twitches as a shiver ran up his spine.

As Sherlock hurried to get back to the master bedroom, the thought occurred that surely it was a touch peculiar to find the act of shaving erotic.

 

* * *

 

Books hadn’t equipped Sherlock for it. Nor had Dad’s _horrific_ ‘talk’ about bodies, hormones and sex. Even watching Mycroft go through the same thing years ago hadn’t prepared him. And now at sixteen Sherlock had finally fallen prey to the mechanics of his body.

The impulse of sex. The release and swift bliss of masturbation.

His books were too dry and factual. They couldn’t accurately describe the rush of blood, the intensity of yearning. The aches of muscles and messy fluids. How his mind tangled and disrupted, became cumbersome. And the smell.

Oh, how Sherlock hated the smell.

The first few times had been awful for everyone concerned. Sherlock would wake and curse how his body and mind betrayed him the previous night. Throw his windows open and rip his sheets off; snipe and scowl like the hurricane of hormones he was, purposefully ignoring the looks his parents threw at each other, escaping outside until he eventually relented and returned to his bedroom where fresh, clean sheets were laid out.

It came as a relief when Sherlock discovered that he could exert a level of control over his own body. Relief but not satisfaction. The press of cold tiles against his back, porcelain at his feet. Soap-slick fingers curled around his hard, damp cock. Pressing and tugging, fast and rough until he came, gasping. Propping himself up as his muscles flexed, threatening to send him tumbling onto the bathtub as he fumbled for the shower knob. The expediency of water cascading down his body, washing him clean.

But sometimes – rarely – Sherlock wanted to drag it out. To tease and draw out that intense, insufferable feeling until he fell into his orgasm, trembling, his mind blank. But he refused to sully his own room during such an endeavour. His parent’s room – not an option either. But Mycroft’s bedroom. Only now occupied during the rare trips home and occasional holidays.

Mycroft’s room was just perfect.

 

* * *

 

The only way to describe Mycroft’s room was pristine. Sheets smooth and folded over with military perfect corners. No extraneous items on show, only a couple of casual wooden carved statues that screamed male and pretention. And yet, it was utterly opulent once you looked past the initial presentation.

Antique lamps upon solid wenge side tables. The plush ottoman and wingback chairs, complementing the colours of the room. Mulberry silk sheets – at around 700 thread count. And then there was the bed. Mycroft’s bed. Ostentatious, statuesque and the central focus of the room.

 

* * *

 

The first time had the thrill of the illicit. Curtains closed, room heavy with dusk and disuse. There would be no interruption as Sherlock had seen his parents leave for an evening with friends.

He couldn’t help the smirk when he walked into Mycroft’s bedroom. Trailed his fingers over cold wood and rough wool. Sherlock had – as he grew older and better saw his brother – considered this room sombre, stark and altogether implacable. It was just a room in his home, a place given up. Scarcely used anymore. No longer wanted.

Sherlock had every right, he decided.

It was the same each time. Because ultimately it was a hormonal release – a return to his normality.

Sherlock would enter the room, undress and collapse onto Mycroft’s old bed. He’d tease and torment his body – the brush of fingers along his knees or a lick of the soft, pale skin of his upper arm. Nails scraping up his chest or the tension as he pulled at his curls. Only when he could feel the coolness of the cotton sheets soothe against his heated skin would Sherlock allow his hands to wander to his groin.

The first few times he remained on his back, pulling at his cock, fast and rough or slow, a petting motion. His knees bent giving him purchase as he shifted his hips. And when he came, he spilled over himself, come pooling on up his body. Where he could lie, indulging in the sticky tracks his fingers painted, or the slightly bitter taste. Then when he was sated and bored and the smell became just too much, Sherlock would grab his clothes and slip away to the bathroom – unseen, unknown – before returning to his room, his experiments and books.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock merely walked up and down the attached walk-in closet and dressing room – full of bespoke, and expensive, suits for all occasions. Silk ties, polished shoes. It was a room that would have outdone the most fashion-conscious woman he knew. But then this was Mycroft.

Each drawer in the bedroom was checked. Examined – carefully. His brother would know if anything was moved out of place. The side tables contained nothing more illicit than some hand lotion, a part-empty pack of migraine pills, an eye mark that Sherlock might have mistaken for a blindfold if he didn’t know any better and a pen.

A pen that concealed a two inch serrated blade, and included what Sherlock suspected was a panic button signalling back to MI6.

The console only contained Mycroft’s preferred accessories – his pocket watches, cufflinks and watches. A selection of bedding and towels and other personal frills. A phone and finally a single framed photograph – of their parents, Mycroft, Sherlock when they were all much younger and Redbeard.

Sentiment. Sherlock hadn’t quite thought it of Mycroft.

Much to his agitation, he could find no evidence of a partner. Of a second person to inhabit the same spaces as his brother. To explain his brother’s actions. But Sherlock know there must be something. There always is, and his brother is no exception. Merely better hidden. Moving into the foot of Mycroft’s bed, Sherlock turned on his heel and examined each facet of the room once more. Then it suddenly struck him. The area dismissed.

_Ah – my brother’s dressing room._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock collapsed back against the mattress, still hot and feverish. His body demanded more. Touch and feel wasn’t enough – not the red marks that stood proud on his pale skin after he dragged his nails chasing that sweet biting edge. Nor the whisper of his fingers against his throat and mouth as he imagined soft touches of some other. Even the brush of textured wool against the curve of his calves merely felt torturous.

Expelling a frustrated grunt, Sherlock slid his fingers down his torso, squeezing tight and pulling at his cock. The knot of tension in his gut merely grew, pulling him further away from climax. Sherlock felt his body as a dull throb, an ache as he needed to pierce with a sharp prick of focussed pleasure. His brain, always his greatest tool, now a barrier in finding a release, distracting him from his goal with innocuous, random thoughts and observations.

He turned, curled his body into himself. His nose buried into cotton-covered pillows as he clenched and gritted his teeth in the face of frustration. Then, under the smell of cotton, of dust and books, Sherlock’s nose picked up a new note. Distinctive. A faint scent of musk, orange. And dark chocolate.

So very distinctively Mycroft.

Sherlock felt the tension on his shoulders and neck melt. The distracting buzz of his mind lessened as he focussed on the new sense. His thumb pressing into his slit felt anew. The tickle as a dribble of pre-come slid down his hot cock sent a shiver up his spine. Sherlock let his fingers thrum, played a tune taught years ago, against his swollen cock. Each light touch layered on top of the other, the pressure building. The silence in the room interrupted by harsh pants and soft moans.

He sank deeper into the pillows, closed his eyes. Sherlock felt like he was floating. No. Speeding along. Spreading his thighs, Sherlock gave his cock several long, hard pulls. The movement growing slicker, easier. The wool blanket at the foot of Mycroft’s bed no longer abrasive but felt like the teasing touch of fingers at his calves and ankles. With his body now lax, the thick and heavy duvet he rested upon felt like an embrace.

With every twist, turn and undulation, Sherlock could almost imagine another in the bed with him. Touching him – light, fleeting and teasing. He fisted his cock with more speed, tightened his grip.

That scent hit him again. Sparked a part of his brain in a reaction that felt visceral. His back arched as he slid his fingers from wet tip to root again, the perfect level of tightness in his balls. And then Sherlock came. Unbidden. His hand still pumping his cock as strings of come decorated his chest, his thighs and Mycroft’s sheets.

 

* * *

 

The dressing room screamed obsessive compulsive with its clothes organised on hangers, shoes on shelves. The room was framed by the large window – the natural flooding the room and setting off against the dark-brown wenge wood shelves and rich-shine of the chocolate tuffed leather ottoman.

Sherlock let his fingers trails over fine wools, crisp cotton and opulent silk, moving quickly past the suits and shirts. His brother would never be so crass as to have installed a secret compartment into the walls. Too obvious. Too much like the cartoon villains Sherlock had sometimes accused Mycroft of being when he was a child.

No – Mycroft always like to be a little contrary. Just to irritate Sherlock. To compel Sherlock’s attention, drive his fascination in his elder brother. Like this latest show with his beard.

He found himself walking towards the section of shelves where Mycroft stored his shoes – in separate little cubby holes for each one. Mycroft had, many years ago, taught him the myriad of clues one could deduce from a pair of shoes. They had accompanied their father to their local town one day – he had a meeting with the local Bank Manager – and so Mycroft and Sherlock had waited in the branch lobby. And Mycroft had quietly deduced the men and women who walked up to the counter to conduct their business to Sherlock.

The black patent shoes, so obviously new and yet very well-maintained – the owner’s a young man, his hair so carefully and neatly parted, combed down with gel, shoes polished and shined – with his suit that was slightly too big for him because it belongs to his older brother. Anxious because he’s at the branch for a job interview. And the wife, prim and proper, in a trouser suit with padded shoulders, who beat her husband because she needed an outlet when the pressure at work got to be all too much, clear from her scuffed, leather black ankle boots.

Sherlock knelt down, looking at the second lowest shelve of shoes. He decided to move the pair of Burwood sandlewood polished binders, taking them off the shelf and placing them on the floor next to him. He ducked his head just a little more and then saw it. A seam, almost invisible in the dark space.

It was only a simple task to get past the fake cover with the application of pressure at the right points to activate the pad. Sherlock pulled out a simple double-hinged box. Locked, of course, but that took only a matter of mere moments to unlock. And inside.

He blinked. Sherlock’s entire mind parsed his whole, and new understanding of his brother. Rearranged, resorted and looked upon anew. He certainly can’t refer to Mycroft as staid anymore, not given the box of sex toys and aides he now held.

There’s the obvious – condoms, lube. Their lack of presence in Mycroft’s bedroom would only draw a raised eyebrow. A man married to his job. A lack of romantic liaisons, the lack of pressure points. Then the more esoteric – such as a plug, prostate massager and a rubbery object given the image on the (still-sealed) box called a WaterWiener that got a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. There were several other items, in discreet _Coco de Mer_ stamped boxes but he had discovered quite enough.

Sherlock shoved the box back into its hiding space and replaced the shoes, even as he felt his skin grew warm, mouth dry and his pants tighten. His brother may not have a lover – of that, Sherlock was much more certain – but now the need to know who his brother imagines in the dark of night, the privacy of his room, consumed him.

 

* * *

 

It had been over a year since Mycroft had graced the family – and Sherlock – with a visit home. The way his mother had gone about preparing the Christmas dinner for the ‘whole’ family sent Sherlock running back to his bedroom – although at nearly eighteen, he had grown aware enough to make sure to swipe a few mince pies while hiding from his mother for the rest of the day.

By the time Mycroft arrived home early that evening, the December night wet and cold, Sherlock was edgy with anticipation. The short walk from the car to the front door had thoroughly chilled out Father and son, so they adjourned to the fireplace for a finger of scotch and the heat of the fire.

Sherlock decided the time was right and snuck back up the stairs and into his brother’s room – as familiar to him now as his own – for a quick wank. After finishing, wiping himself off on the newly laid sheets and duvet, Sherlock returned to his own bedroom and waited.

The message was clear.

Sherlock wanted to know whether it would be sufficient to provoke a reaction from his serious, dull brother.

He didn’t have to wait long, although the time it took for his indolent brother to deign to carry his bags to his room seemed to take eternity. But Mycroft was sure of foot and Sherlock was easily able to picture his brother’s progress through the house, the stairs and into his bedroom. At the sound of Mycroft’s bedroom door closing, Sherlock slinked out of his own room and positioned himself, leaning against the wall so he’d have the perfect view of his brother’s scandalised expression.

Sherlock smirked when he heard the thump as his brother’s overnight bag fell from suddenly bloodless fingers. There’d be a moment where Mycroft would hold his head in his hands – biting back the curses he wanted to say. And then he’d realise – Sherlock’s train of thought was lost as the handle turned. Sherlock smirk grew wider as he finally had the opportunity to take in Mycroft’s flushed face as he stood in the doorway.

He met his brother’s harsh, hot glare.

“My bedroom, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s words were a low growl and it stirred something in him.

“It’s not like you’re using it, brother dear.”

Mycroft covers the short width of the hallway until he stood barely centimetres from Sherlock, who’s dismayed to realise he was still shorter than his brother but Sherlock refused to give an inch. But he can’t help the shiver when Mycroft whispers “How terribly indecent, little brother,” directly into his ear.

With that pronouncement, Mycroft spun on his heel and returned to his bedroom, slamming the door. Sherlock caught the faint rustle of fabric – Mycroft stripping the bedding presumably – as he practically ran back to his own room. Only with the solid door at his back did he look down at his disloyal body.

And with his brother’s simple five words echoing in his mind, Sherlock’s hands crept towards his groin.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock lay back in Mycroft’s bed – the opulent wenge-framed king, not the smaller one he’d remembered still at their parent’s house – grateful for the luxurious support as he gasped, noisily sucking in much needed air. He faintly recognised that illicit sensation running through his body once more.

As his heart rate returned to normal, the pounding in his ears lessened, he slowly became aware of his other senses. The smell of ejaculation. Although now one he was much more accustomed to.

Hand and spent cock sticky with come. Damp trails on his shirt where some of it had landed, although it could be easily covered up by his coat until he got back to Baker Street to change. He carefully tucked himself back into his trousers before wiping his hand against the duvet.

That distinctive smell. Of musk, orange and dark chocolate. Stronger than he would expect from bedding alone.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he rose, flying off his brother’s bed, taking in his surroundings anew in one fluid movement. And to his shock – _horror, shame, desire, need_ – there stood Mycroft in the doorframe.

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in four parts partly because while I very much admire the Gatiss-beard ... boy is it hard to describe! That or I'm much too distracted by the research (i.e. leering at pictures) required!
> 
> Enjoy! *g*


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